


Nighttime Kisses and Poets

by MurdersintheMorgue



Series: The Poet and the Philosopher [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, about horror, and arguing, and hp lovecraft, fluff you guys, hero - Freeform, hp is great though he's like my hearo, this is really lame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurdersintheMorgue/pseuds/MurdersintheMorgue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, there's one still awake. Are you going to sleep here or leave, then?" </p><p>Jehan started at the voice, snapping his head up to meet Enjolras's bleary eyed gaze. He glanced around to see it seemed he was indeed the only one awake in the room besides the blonde, having been so engrossed in his writing he hadn't realized everyone had left. Blushing and scuffling his poems together, tumbling out of his chair, he offered Enjolras an apologetic smile.<br/>"I'll walk you home Jehan." Combeferre appeared from his room, looking stressed and needing a reason to go out for some air. Enjolras looked as shocked as Jehan, who had nearly jumped his skin at the appearance of his friend. </p><p>"Yes, that sounds nice." Jehan finally agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighttime Kisses and Poets

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story for Les Miserables and first on here. I hope it's not all that bad ugh. Sorry for the shortness ughgugh

"Oh, there's one still awake. Are you going to sleep here or leave, then?" 

Jehan started at the voice, snapping his head up to meet Enjolras's bleary eyed gaze. He glanced around to see it seemed he was indeed the only one awake in the room besides the blonde, having been so engrossed in his writing he hadn't realized everyone had left. Blushing and scuffling his poems together, tumbling out of his chair, he offered Enjolras an apologetic smile. 

"Ah, sorry, I'll go home, you seem to have enough to deal with." He said softly but cheerfully, nodding over at Grantaire huddled into the corner as though he had attempted to disappear, which some wouldn't put past him. Enjolras followed the poet's nod and sighed heavily, pushing a hand through his already untidy hair and made his way towards the brunette. 

"What am I going to do with you" Jehan heard him mutter as the man gently placed a blanket over Grantaire's skinny shoulders and stuffed a pillow between his brown curls and the wall. Jehan stood still for a moment, half a smile on his face as he watched the act, hand frozen in midair reaching for his scarf. Eventually the hand grabbed its destioned pocession as Enjolras turned, looking around the room to see who else had fallen into a drunken stupdior. 

"I'll walk you home Jehan." Combeferre appeared from his room, looking stressed and needing a reason to go out for some air. Enjolras looked as shocked as Jehan, who had nearly jumped his skin at the appearance of his friend. 

"Yes, that sounds nice." Jehan finally says, smiling blissfully as he wraps a floral print scarf around his neck that he probably got from the old lady part of a thrift shop without noticing. Combeferre nods and heads to get his beaten leather jacket from the hook as well, and stuffing a beanie on his head. Jehan nods a goodnight to Enjolras and wraps his scarf around his nose, snuggling down into it as he steps into the apartment hallway. Combeferre follows him quietly as they skip down the stairwell and into the street.

"It's snowing!" Jehan pipes as they emerge from the building, gazing up at the sky where glittery snowflakes were falling, trying to catch one on his tounge. His breath froze and his nose turned pink but no snowflakes were caught. 

Combeferre laughs at the display, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket to sheild them from the cold. 

"So it is." He says cheerfully. Jehan beams at his companion as they begin to move slowly towards the building where Jehan shares a small apartment with Courfeyrac. They walk in comfortable silence, Jehan occasionally suggesting that the snow looks like silver or sugar or fairy dust until finally Combeferre cuts him off with a shout of a laugh at the last. Jehan starts, looking over at his companion. 

"Did I say something funny?"

"You said the snow looks like fairy dust."

The poet pouts.

"But it kind of does."

"What would you know of fairies?"

"I read."

Combeferre chuckles, raising a brow above his thick rimmed glasses.

"Oh really now." 

Jehan scowls, shooting a glare at his friend.

"'Course I do, I'm a literary major." 

"What do you like to read though." 

Jehan shrugs.

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"Have you ever read any horror?"

"Only the classic kind, because if it's going to be scary it should at least be pleasing to the mind." Jehan's answer is curt, and he has a snide look. Combeferre hums in agreement.

"What writers then?"

"Well, Poe, obviously. And H.P. Lovecraft. And if I'm in a particularily dreary mood I'll read Frankenstein or perhapes Sleepy Hollow."

"Sleepy Hollow." 

"It's scary!"

Combeferre's wearing an amused grin, glanceing at his flushed friend. Jehan fidgets.

"Well, do you read horror?"

"Only the good kind."

"I read the good kind!"

"I meant the kind that makes men like you have nightmares for years." Combeferre grins at Jehan's peeved expression, making wiggly fingers at his friend as the brunette seeths.

"Lovecraft can make your mind hurt and your reality world wrong!" He says passionatly. Combeferre shakes his head, only teasing now, as he actually couldn't get through most of Lovecraft's stories as they were too mind boggling and imagination exhasting. 

"Ah, but you've never experianced real horror if those are the only stories you read."

"Real horror. Pray share then, what do you, oh expert of the genre at topic, consider real horror." 

"Have you ever read Steven King?"

"I've attempted but-"

"You weren't able to get through it, my point exactly." 

Jehan sputters, face red and the small flower tucked behind his ear now frozen from the climate. Combeferre brushes it away and the man mutters something about how Combeferre knew nothing of literature as he can only read the simple text and look at it as intelligently as he can, stupid good for nothing philosophy majors. 

They had long since reached the doorstep of Jehan's building, bickering in the cold street. Jehan finally looked up at Combeferre who had been looking at him strangly for some moments now. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing emerged. 

Snowflakes fell slowly around them. 

Then, in a dream like state, Comeferre slowly leaned towards Jehan, who stood frozen and confused on the spot.

Chapped lips were pressed to his own. 

He starts a little, pulling back slightly but the lips are persistent and he gives in, kissing back. 

It's a chaste kiss, merely pushing of lips, but when they pull back both boys are breathless and flushed not from the cold. Combeferre grins cheekily. 

"Lovecraft is a horror genius." He whispers. Jehan lets out a surprised laugh, tapping the other's face. 

"You got me all worked up you fool." He says. Combeferre kisses him again, and it's a real kiss this time, their lips moving in time with one another. Finally they pull apart huffing once again.

Jehan leans his forehead against Combeferre's, hands gripping at his jacket collar tightly.

"What're all these kisses for then?" He whispers, eyes watching his fingers. The other brushes a cold finger against the smooth cheek before him.

"For being so cute and passionate. I'm also a bit buzzed." He admits. Jehan lets out a sharp laugh, pulling Combeferre closer. 

"Does this mean we can kiss everytime I do something cute?" He asks hopefully, glancing up at his companion. Combeferre offers him a crooked smile. 

"I'd like this to mean we can kiss whenever we feel like kissing." He admits. Jehan smiles shyly. 

"I think that's an okay deal." 

Their goodbye is a heated one, one full of unsaid words and future poems of love and glasses and the smell of old books.


End file.
